Hide & Seek
by ToxicTreacle
Summary: Bob's after the Simpsons again! He has them trapped... And NO, there are no open windows this time! ...At least, he hopes so. Sure, they seem helpless, but little does the sideshow know that even the Simpsons' home can be a death trap... not to mention, the Simpsons themselves...


"Boy, you hand over that pork chop nice and slowly…"

"Why? Can't you move your fat butt to come and get it yourself?"

A spiky-haired boy stood at the top of the stairs, grinning wickedly as he watched his father at the base of the stairs eye him with irritation and contempt as he enticingly shook the slab of meat in his right hand.

"WHY YOU LITTLE—!"

"Mwu-ha-ha-ha!" came the menace's trademark laugh, slowly fading away from the hallways as he bolted for his room, slamming the door behind him.

As he leaned against the door of his Krusty-themed bedroom, he silently listened for the listless cries that would soon fill his ears.

…

Nothing.

"Come on, Homer…" he muttered, getting sick of waiting for the old man to come barging up the stairs just to scream at him.

Daring to look outside, the boy creaked open the door, preparing to venture outside. He silently snuck along the walls, eyeing each and every one, just in case his father planned a sneak attack.

At last, after creaking floor boards, screaming Snowball II, and a snoring Grampa, he reached the top of the stairs once more.

The scene he witnessed almost outmatched that of Garfield.

Homer was halfway up the stairs, straining to pull himself up them to reach his hell-raised son.

"Why… did mankind… invent… STAIRS?"

Bart watched him with a smirk, but then skeptically shook his head. "Did the floor beat you again, Homer?"

"HEY! It only won last time because—" the yellow-skinned adult looked up, suddenly glaring. "BART!"

Said ten-year-old had again brought the meat to view, and smiled with that smug look that told the older one he had ten seconds… or something like that; he wasn't great with math.

A greyhound walked past the fat blob on the stairs, and, without any trouble, all the way to the top, eyes not noticing the mouthwatering pork chop until the last minute.

Santa's Little Helper sat on the step before Bart, tongue hanging out, eyes widening, tail wagging, and whines escaping his mouth.

The troublemaker looked down with sympathy, giving a side-glance to the pork, "Aw, you want some, boy?"

A growl sounded, and it took him a second to realize the dog wasn't growling, but, rather, his dad was.

"Bart…"

The dog whined, mouth watering at the sight of the meat.

Bart smiled at Homer, and then held out the pork chop, closing his eyes and dramatically stating, "Oh, no! I'm going to drop it!"

The partly-bald man's eyes widened, and he reproachfully shook his hands. "Now, boy, we don't want try anything hasty, do w—?"

**THUD!**

Surprise altered the youngster's features, as he jumped and turned his head to the noise, coincidentally dropping the pork into his pet's mouth.

Homer's face drifted to that of horror, as he banged on the stairs like he'd lost a leg. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" he wailed loudly.

Bart, ignoring the cries of his pork-broken father, ("So young... Never. Got. To. Get. Eaten. Properly!") stared at the source of the noise, which seemed to be emanating from his room. He briskly frowned, knowing full well his homemade alarm shouldn't go off, because, as far as he knew, his family was downstairs, (and his father still halfway up them…). With absent thoughts, he walked down the hall, hearing the grunts behind him as his parent attempted to climb the stairs to give the boy a good hiding. Hesitantly, he stood in front of the open door, skeptical yet suspicious of what had occurred moments ago. His gaze passed over his sleeping place.

There was a piece of paper on his bed.

Nothing was there before…

Lowering one eye in bafflement, the boy walked forward, his shoes quietly thudding along the carpet. He stopped in front of the bed, and then stared at the piece of paper for a second, before reaching out a hand to pick it up.

At first, it was blank, but as then he turned it over.

He felt a familiar fear crawl into his stomach as it churned away absentmindedly.

For what was written, in that memorable bloody font, was…

'_THOU SHALL NOT LIVE_.'

**BANG!**

The door slammed behind him, and he gasped silently before turning heel, his hand scrunching around the weak piece of paper in his hands.

A silhouette stood in front of the now-closed door, brandishing a sharp object Bart knew far too well.

His heart raced indefinitely, and he took a step back, only to crash into the frame and tumble backwards onto the mattress.

Red, palm-tree-like hair… Big feet… Tall figure…

Sweat dripped down his forehead, as he whimpered nervously.

Within moments, he was looking into the devious, murderous eyes of Sideshow Bob.

"Hello, Bar—ACK!"

**BANG!**

Before he could even finish his catchphrase, the door forced itself open once more, shoving the former TV clown into the wall, and an angry-looking and breathless Homer Simpson stormed in, hand tightening on the door knob. "You **MURDERER**!" he growled.

Bart stared blankly at the fallen enemy, and then turned to his father. "Huh?"

"You murdered that innocent _pork chop_, you little…"

A groan made his sentence come to a halt.

A silence.

He eyed Bart suspiciously. "Bart… have you been hiding a dolphin in the bathtub again?"

The shifty eyes movement was made, and the kid folded his arms. "Of… course not. Have you given up on beer?"

"Like Hell I have!" the man laughed, his hostile behavior suddenly vanishing. "Seriously, though, if you're keeping a dolphin in the bathtub," he hoarsely whispered, "watch out for the bug zapper."

The boy's eyes widened slightly. "…Bug zapper?"

. . .

The bathroom floor glistened as the light shined upon it. Birds were singing outside, the room smelled like a rose, and any bad stench had been wiped out. But all was not right room, for an electrical device, which flickered on and off with a fluorescent light, stood beside a dolphin in the bathtub, which was presumably deceased from electrocution.

An old man entered the room, wrinkles littered about his face and spectacles sitting on his nose.

His eyes lit up at the dead mammal.

"Hot dog! Fish and chips tonight!"

. . .

"Eh… Yeah. The bugs outside wouldn't leave the poor thing alone for some reason," Homer stated with a displeased look. "I mean, it's there to look pretty, right? And those flies… they should get done for assault!" His eyes narrowed, and he put a fist in his hand.

Bart just watched him, unable to find anything to say.

"Well, better get downstairs…" Seeming to forget the whole ordeal of why he was up here in the first place, he cheerfully smiled. "Marge promised donuts!" His hand pressed the door forward a little, banging it into the being behind it. Feeling the lump, Homer stared at the door hard, before pushing it out a little more, trying to get it to hit the wall. After all, an open and shutting door cycle works like that.

There was another groan of pain, and the chubby guy could not push the door fully against the wall. With persistence, he pressed his whole weight against it.

Every time, it made a small bang, but that wasn't enough for Homer. He wanted to hear the bang a door normally made when pushed directly against concrete.

"Urgh… stupid door…"

He pushed again, harder.

"Ow."

He strained against it, dismissing the verbal whines after it.

"I'll teach you to stop Homer Jay Simpson from possibly damaging the wall!"

**Thud.**

"Ow."

**Thud.**

"Oww."

**Thud.**

"Ow."

The force was harder than before.

**Thud!**

"OWW!"

**Thud!**

"OWWW!"

**Thud!**

"OWWWWW!"

"Uh… dad?"

"Not now, son, daddy's on very important busines—URGH! DAMN YOU, STUPID DOOR!"

The youngest watched his father blankly, frowning.

"You will die before—" Homer stopped, and then pulled his head around the door, seeing a battered man seated behind it. Understanding, he simply said, "…Oh."

"Neuurgghhh…" The psychopath groaned, his eyes flickering open to glare at the two staring at him.

"Hey, ain't that…?" Homer's mouth flew agape as he saw the knife. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! SIDESHOW BILL!"

Before Bob could object to this name, the wooden door was shoved against his face again.

"Urgh…. OWWW… That stupid…!"

Grabbing his baffled son by the collar, Homer hightailed it outta' there, dragging his son behind him down the stairs.

"Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow."

The father paid no attention to the whimpering boy, and got down the stairs faster than he got up them.

"If anyone asks, you slammed the door on him!"

"Yeah, okay, o-okay…" Bart choked as his feet clattered against the stairs. "B-but… I CAN run, you know!"

Homer's look darkened, and he whispered in a sinister, begrudging tone, "Yes… You can run now, but you won't be able to run later…"

"Urk…"

"Homie?"

At the bottom of the stairs, a woman with tall, blue hair blinked at the pair.

"Ah, ha… Hey, Marge!" the man waved, and came to a halt, allowing his son to regain his breath as he did so.

Marge pursed her lips, tilting her head as she looked up the stairs. "…Homer… What's going on?"

"Marge, after much consideration and thought, I have come to the conclusion we have a Shakespearian nutter in the house."

A silence, and his wife stared at him oddly.

Bart elbowed the guy, "Try speaking plain English, Home-boy."

Homer folded his arms. "Oh, fine…" He stared solemnly at his partner. "Marge, I hate to tell you this, honey, but your shampoo isn't safe… Dad's planning to sue us for theft."

"Good lord!"

"…Oh, yeah, and Bart's called his psychopath friend over."

Marge was inquisitive. "Milhouse?"

"No, Mom!" the rebel interjected, "It's…!"

"My, it's been so _long _since I was once here…" a voice mused, as a frowning Sideshow Bob stood at the top of the stairs, baring a sharp carving knife.

A fist shook in his direction. "Back off, buddy! I got Shakespeare haters listed in the yellow pages, and I know how to use 'em!"

Bob growled at the chubby man, and then continued, "So… How is the _wonderful_ Simpson family? The family who had a member who decided it best to slam that… BLASTED door against me… repeatedly?"

"Bart did it!" Homer quickly pointed at his son, who scowled in return.

"Dad…!"

The ex-clown deadpanned, "It doesn't matter to me who did it."

"Phew."

"…All your _cold, bloody_ deaths will be carried out all the same!"

"D'OH!"


End file.
